Page 72 of Love Me Tomorrow

I whisper his name on a halted breath, kissing his throat, the underside of his jaw. My fingertips glide down to the shallow dimples on either side of his spine, down farther still to the curve of his ass, to feel the sensual retreat of his hips before he drives forward all over again.

“Yes,” I moan, back bowing off the sofa, my foot on the floor rising to my toes so I can strain ever closer. I need more of the electric feeling coursing through me, more ofhim.

And then Owen shifts positions, leaning back onto his knees with his hands gripping my hips. He pistons forward, and his body—every inch of him—is a feast for the eyes. Tattoos cover every inch of his upper chest and arms. Those at the base of his throat seem to ripple as he swallows, hard, and fucks me with a precision, a singular focus, that should be outlawed in all fifty states. Above his thrusting hips, those skeletal angel wings seem only that much more darkly sinister, but I love them too.

I love it all.

“I’m not going to last,” Owen grits outs. “Next time, when I’m—fuck, you’re so wet, sweetheart.”

His fingers are going to leave their mark on my flesh. But those bruises won’t come anywhere close to the imprint he’s made on my soul, my heart, like a brand of his own design. His black gaze, always so impassive and aloof, is positivelyburningwith emotion, with desire, with need.

I grip his wrists, angling myself to meet each drive of his plunging hips. “Not a one-time thing,” I say, gasping. “It could never be just that.”

It’s all the reassurance I apparently need to give because Owen’s hand leaves my hip, his fingers heading straight to ground zero. They apply pressure on my clit, making me moan all over again, and I feel it—the orgasm sweeping over me. It starts at my toes, then curls my spine, and I thrust my head back as I call out Owen’s name.

“Fuck, I can feel you coming around me,” he grunts, his abdomen muscles clenching and releasing with every curl of his hips. Sexy. All of him, everything that he is, is so damn hot I feel seared alive. Another thrust, and then he’s coming too, spilling inside of me, the corded muscles in his arms visible as he drags me onto his cock, again and again, until he’s emptied himself completely.

When he collapses on top of me, it’s with his mouth on mine.

“You’ve killed me,” I whisper, tracing the lines of his back.

“Not any more than you’ve already destroyed me.”

I find his bearded jaw and press a soft kiss there. “You have rhythm.”

He huffs out a startled chuckle. “I’m insulted that was ever in question.”

“Your dancing didn’t leave much of an impression, besides my injured toes.”

His hips give a small thrust, and I gasp out loud. “Yeah,” he murmurs all too smugly, “that’s what I thought. Rhythm where it counts.”

We fall into a small silence, our breathing heavy, ragged. That was single-handedly the best sex of my life. And it wasn’t just the sex itself, but Owen. He tore down my walls, then expected me to rise to the occasion and meet him toe for toe. Nothing has ever felt so liberating as being in his arms.

I tiptoe my fingers down the expanse of his muscular, tattooed back, debating on whether I should say anything at all and then decide to hell with it. No bullshit, right? That’s what we decided. Take what you want.

Licking my lips, I brush my mouth over his cheek, then whisper, “I’m glad my sister got you on the show.” He stiffens within my embrace, but I push onward. “It didn’t end how it should have but this . . . for thismoment I would live the last eight months over another hundred times, so long as we ended up here. Just like this.”

21

Owen

Damn Amelie.

Much as I wish she hadn’t said anything at all, it’s probably for the best that the nature of how I ended up onPut A Ring On Itis out in the open. It was bound to come out at some point.

Needing air after the most intense, mind-blowing sex I’ve ever experienced, I nab us both a beer from the fridge and seat us on the back balcony, overlooking the canal down below. I haven’t gotten around to ordering the house any outdoor furniture yet, which means we’re rocking it out on the floor, me dressed only in my jeans, and Savannah in her top and underwear. If America could only see her now: scantily dressed, hair a tangled mess that she tried to comb through with her fingers before giving up, and a satisfied smile that lingers on her lips whenever she thinks I’m not looking.

Yeah, I think it’s safe to say that christening my new couch did us both a world of good. And if it weren’t for Amelie dishing out all of my secrets, it’s totally possible that having sex with Savannah Rose would not have ended up on my agenda for the day.

Looks like I’m in debt to Amelie—again.

With my wrists resting on my bent knees, I lean my head back against the house. “When did she tell you?”

Savannah shifts beside me, rearranging her legs so that she’s sitting cross-legged, her beer clasped between her hands. “Today. Earlier. She, ah, sent me a few screenshots of your texts . . . from when she got you on the show.”

Even with as far as Savannah and I have come since then, I hear the bitter laugh that dredges its way up to the surface. “Turned out to be the wake-up call of the century. I climbed out of that limo so confident and then—well, we both know what happened.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her grip tighten on the bottle. “Owen, I—”

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